On my weekly Sunday afternoon ramble, I came across a money clip on the sidewalk. It contained a credit card and a driver's license and some receipts, and I picked it up tentatively, as one does, for fear that there is someone who is watching and about to yell at you for touching their stuff. No one yelled, so I checked the license to see that it belonged to the house in front of which I was standing.
No one answered the doorbell when I rang it. At length, I put the money clip in the mailbox. I took out a piece of paper and wrote "Your ID is in the mailbox - I found it on the sidewalk :)." I folded up the paper and tried to shove it under the door, but these new-fangled doors, I tell you, have no opening under the door. I finally stuck the note in the side of the door, above the latch, and walked away.
I'm sort of mad now that I didn't put my phone number on the note. It isn't that I want recognition or thanks, because I did what everyone I know would have done, but how will I ever know that the right person got it back? As I walked away, I kept thinking of all the possible scenarios that could result in the person not getting it back - someone stealing it out of the mailbox, etc. I guess I will never know.
It seems like more and more in life, as one grows up, there are things that one just cannot know.
...
I had brunch with some new friends yesterday, and I started, again, telling Southern Sudan stories. It's unfortunately, really, that the stories from there are so very amazing, because they give a false impression. I lived very comfortably and happily in Africa for 12.5 years, and three little months in Southern Sudan are the ones that get the press. THE SNAKES THE SCORPIONS THE FLIES THE LOCUSTS THE FROGS THE SPIDERS THE PIT LATRINE THE RAIN THE HEAT. Yeah, yeah, yeah. The problem is that people often DOUBLE OVER laughing when I tell them the story of losing Wallace in the pit latrine. Making people laugh like that is pretty addicting. That is one good story. Now it is. Now that I have Wilbur to replace Wallace. Now that I have access to music any time I want. It was not such a good story at the time.
"I really think the plagues in the Old Testament came from Southern Sudan," I said. And then, "Oh. Wait. Are you Jewish?"
They were. I HATE it when I use the phrase "Old Testament" while talking to Jewish friends. "YOUR BOOK. I MEANT TO SAY 'YOUR BOOK'." I am an idiot.
But anyway, at least the flies and the locusts and the frogs had to have come from where I was in Southern Sudan. I saw them myself. I felt the grasshoppers launching themselves off my head.
I always end the story by saying, "I would totally go back. It was absolutely worth it." And it was. Despite the culture shock and the critters and the loss of my dear, dear Wallace. It is impossible to put my finger on why, but it was. There was culture shock, yes, but there were also friends who danced with me in the center of the compound on the last night to the tinny music from a little boombox. There were critters, but there were also stars like you never see here, and bathing in the open air shower under a blue, blue sky. There was the loss of Wallace, but there were also women who sat with me and told me about their lives and asked about mine.
After months of telling my family that I wanted to leave, wanted to leave, wanted to leave, about two weeks before I actually left, I announced that I no longer wanted to leave. I was happy, and I wanted to stay.
I think their heads exploded.
No one answered the doorbell when I rang it. At length, I put the money clip in the mailbox. I took out a piece of paper and wrote "Your ID is in the mailbox - I found it on the sidewalk :)." I folded up the paper and tried to shove it under the door, but these new-fangled doors, I tell you, have no opening under the door. I finally stuck the note in the side of the door, above the latch, and walked away.
I'm sort of mad now that I didn't put my phone number on the note. It isn't that I want recognition or thanks, because I did what everyone I know would have done, but how will I ever know that the right person got it back? As I walked away, I kept thinking of all the possible scenarios that could result in the person not getting it back - someone stealing it out of the mailbox, etc. I guess I will never know.
It seems like more and more in life, as one grows up, there are things that one just cannot know.
...
I had brunch with some new friends yesterday, and I started, again, telling Southern Sudan stories. It's unfortunately, really, that the stories from there are so very amazing, because they give a false impression. I lived very comfortably and happily in Africa for 12.5 years, and three little months in Southern Sudan are the ones that get the press. THE SNAKES THE SCORPIONS THE FLIES THE LOCUSTS THE FROGS THE SPIDERS THE PIT LATRINE THE RAIN THE HEAT. Yeah, yeah, yeah. The problem is that people often DOUBLE OVER laughing when I tell them the story of losing Wallace in the pit latrine. Making people laugh like that is pretty addicting. That is one good story. Now it is. Now that I have Wilbur to replace Wallace. Now that I have access to music any time I want. It was not such a good story at the time.
"I really think the plagues in the Old Testament came from Southern Sudan," I said. And then, "Oh. Wait. Are you Jewish?"
They were. I HATE it when I use the phrase "Old Testament" while talking to Jewish friends. "YOUR BOOK. I MEANT TO SAY 'YOUR BOOK'." I am an idiot.
But anyway, at least the flies and the locusts and the frogs had to have come from where I was in Southern Sudan. I saw them myself. I felt the grasshoppers launching themselves off my head.
I always end the story by saying, "I would totally go back. It was absolutely worth it." And it was. Despite the culture shock and the critters and the loss of my dear, dear Wallace. It is impossible to put my finger on why, but it was. There was culture shock, yes, but there were also friends who danced with me in the center of the compound on the last night to the tinny music from a little boombox. There were critters, but there were also stars like you never see here, and bathing in the open air shower under a blue, blue sky. There was the loss of Wallace, but there were also women who sat with me and told me about their lives and asked about mine.
After months of telling my family that I wanted to leave, wanted to leave, wanted to leave, about two weeks before I actually left, I announced that I no longer wanted to leave. I was happy, and I wanted to stay.
I think their heads exploded.
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